The air was heavy with salt and spray as the Dawn Court stood assembled on the eastern shore of Veyra. The sprawling stone piers of Ironhaven Dock, hewn by dwarven hands and bound with runed iron, stretched out into the sea like the arms of a fortress. Banners bearing the golden sun of Falrion snapped in the wind, their colours bright against the grey waters.

Out beyond the harbour, a dark shape cut through the waves, vast, swift, and terrible. The flagship of King Rovan Blackwake, its black sails billowing like storm clouds, its decks bristling with cannon and iron. The ship dwarfed every vessel in Veyra, a moving fortress of wood and steel.

At the pier's edge stood Queen Seralyth, the Necklace of Dawn gleaming at her throat, her court gathered at her side. Kael stood silent, his wolf-hide cloak stirring in the sea breeze, eyes narrowed on the approaching leviathan of a ship.

Breaking the silence, Seralyth turned to Brenn, the dwarven steward of the walls and forgemaster of Veyra's stoneworks.

"The Wall," she asked, her voice steady. "How stands it?"

Brenn folded his thick arms, beard bound in iron clasps, and nodded with pride.

"Stone set, breaches sealed. The Great Wall holds stronger than it did before the fight. Give me a fortnight more, and it'll laugh at anything short of a god's wrath."

Seralyth allowed herself a faint smile. Two days had passed since the bloodshed at the Wall, and the dead were still being buried. But today, there was no mourning. Today, the Salt King of

Tharos would arrive.

And already, the black sails of his flagship filled the horizon.

The sea wind stiffened as the flagship of the Salt King glided toward Ironhaven Dock. It was a leviathan of wood, iron, and steel, larger than any vessel that had ever touched Veyran waters. Its hull loomed high as a fortress wall, dark as night but edged with gold trim that caught the sun. The sails were pure black, vast and unmarked, rising like storm clouds across the horizon.

Despite its colossal size, the ship moved with eerie grace, cutting through the waves as though the sea itself bent to its will. Not a splinter marred its flanks, not a dent scarred its steel, as if the ship had never once known defeat. For a warship bristling with cannon and iron, it looked too perfect, too proud to be anything but a king's vessel.

The prow curved into the likeness of a serpent's maw, its fanged head cast in polished steel. Below, rows of cannon mouths lined the hull, silent but menacing, a promise of the firepower hidden within.

A drumbeat thundered from the decks, deep and steady, rolling over the bay. The crew, hard-faced men and women hardened by the sea, stood in strict ranks, not cheering but chanting low, their voices carrying across the water like the pulse of a storm.

At last, the anchors plunged, chains clattering as the ship slowed. Ropes lashed, the gangplank lowered with precision, and the first boots struck Ironhaven stone. Then came their king.

Rovan Blackwake, clad in black leathers trimmed with sea-gold, descended with the stride of one who owned every step of land he touched. One hand rested easily upon the hilt of his black cutlass, its polished guard glinting faintly in the sunlight. Behind him followed the Saltblood Court, shadows of his will, ready to bear witness to whatever bargain or storm would follow.

Seralyth stepped forward, the Dawn Court arrayed proudly behind her. Together they bowed and saluted in unison, a show of formality and respect.

"Welcome to Veyra, King Rovan Blackwake," Seralyth said, her voice steady, regal, yet warm.

The pirate king's scarred face broke into a smile, sharp and knowing. He removed his wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, dipping into a small, mocking bow, respectful enough not to insult, but playful enough to remind them he was no ordinary monarch.

"Well, well," Rovan said, his tone laced with humour. "A welcome fit for a saint. Shame I'm no saint."

Behind him, the Saltblood Court stood still and silent, their eyes cold, watching every face on the pier without the faintest courtesy.

Seralyth inclined her head slightly and gestured toward Dawnspire.

"If it pleases you, my lord, rooms have been prepared within the citadel. You and your court may freshen yourselves before we speak of business."

Rovan chuckled, slipping his hat back on. "Gracious of you, my queen, but no need. My ship is my home, finer than any bed of stone. She keeps me and mine well enough." He gave a half-shrug and flashed that wolfish grin again. "But your courtesy is noted. I say we spare the pleasantries and cut straight to business, eh?"

"As you wish," Seralyth replied smoothly.

Together they left the dock, the pirate king and the queen of Veyra walking side by side. Behind them, the Dawn Court and the Saltblood Court followed in tight formation, a living wall of steel and silence.

As they passed through the streets of Dawnspire, people lined the way, craning their necks to glimpse the infamous pirate king. Mothers clutched their children close, merchants bowed nervously, and whispers chased the procession. Some looked on in awe at the king's presence, others in fear, for a man like Rovan was as much legend as he was flesh.

The black sails of his ship still loomed in the harbour behind them, a shadow over the city as the two courts advanced toward the citadel.

As Seralyth and Rovan walked side by side through Dawnspire's stone-paved streets, the pirate king glanced at her bruised cheek, the mark still faintly visible despite her poise.

"What happened to your face, my queen?" Rovan asked, his tone caught somewhere between concern and mischief.

Seralyth didn't hesitate. "Two days past, I fought Bragga of the Black Court," she said evenly. "She fell by my hand."

Rovan's brows lifted, impressed. "Bragga? I never had the pleasure, though her name sailed on the wind often enough. Ugly brute, by all accounts." His mouth curled into a grin. "Tell me, was she as hideous as they say?"

A small smile touched Seralyth's lips. "Worse."

The Salt King laughed, low and sharp, clearly delighted.

Behind them, Caren leaned toward Jax, Rovan's scarred first mate, his voice smooth and measured.

"And how was your voyage across the sea, master Jax?" Caren asked, in his usual silken charm.

"Fine," Jax replied flatly, offering nothing more.

"Glad to hear it," Caren said, recovering awkwardly.

At that, Garr and Sel, the other two of the Saltblood Court exchanged a glance and let slip quiet giggles.

The chamber stank of iron and rot, its walls lined with racks of blades, hooks, and instruments of agony, Maltherion's favourite room. Chains clinked as the broken form of an imp hung before him, each limb stretched taut, its body trembling with futile resistance.

"You summoned me, my lord," came a hissing voice.

From the shadows, Zerik the Shadow-Tongue emerged, serpent-like eyes glinting.

"Zerik. About time," Maltherion rumbled, circling the chained imp. His clawed fingers trailed almost tenderly along its trembling skin. "There is word the Wyrms have cast a curse on one of our own. I need you to tell me what you see."

"Who was cursed?" the warlock asked, his forked tongue flicking as he spoke.

Maltherion did not answer at once. Instead, he gripped the imp's cheek and, with the precision of endless practice, began to peel its skin back in ribbons. The creature shrieked, its cries echoing against the stone walls.

"Thyra," Maltherion said at last, his voice calm over the wailing. "The assassin."

"I see..." Zerik whispered, hunger in his tone.

"Do your ritual," Maltherion commanded. "Tell me the truth of it."

Zerik bowed slightly, his body shifting unnaturally. "May I use your alchemy chamber, lord?"

Maltherion tilted his head as though considering, though the imp's screams drowned the moment. "Silence," he growled. The chained creature instantly stilled, only to begin howling again.

With deliberate cruelty, Maltherion reached into its chest, fingers sinking through flesh and bone as if they were parchment. He wrenched free a blackened heart, still twitching, before letting the lifeless body hang limp.

Blood dripping from his claw, he turned to Zerik. "May I use your alchemy chamber, lord?" the warlock repeated smoothly.

"Hmph." Maltherion's growl rumbled through the chamber. He gestured sharply, and his death-servants shuffled forward, dragging the corpse away and chaining its replacement into place.

Zerik slipped into the shadows, heading for the alchemy room to begin his ritual.

End of chapter five - part one.